The Four Times Sherlock Felt John's Pulse
by stargazerdown
Summary: ...and the one time he almost couldn't. Sherlock knows that John will always be there for him- at least, as long as he can feel his heartbeat. No slash, just platonic friendship/love.


1. In which John is confused._  
_

Sherlock is jolted out of sleep by the firm shaking of his shoulders and the sound of his own screams. His clear eyes fly open to the sight of a slightly rumpled-looking doctor by his bedside, whose face visibly calms at the sight of an awakened detective. John releases his hold on his flatmate's frame.

"Want to talk about it this time?"

Sherlock tucks his knees up to his chest and presses the tips of his long, thin fingers to his temple. John sighs. "That's a no, then." Sherlock's head snaps up. "Reassure me." "What-? Sherlock?" The detective's left hand shoots out and latches around John's tanned wrist, fingers pressing into the radial artery. His eyes close, and in his mind he sees the graph of John's pulse, reassuringly beating in steady rhythm. His thin body relaxes, and he keeps his fingers pressed against John's skin. The doctor looks at him, worried, and leans down for an awkward embrace. "I'll always be here, Sherlock. You know that?" And Sherlock thinks, _Only as long as I can feel your heart._

2. In which John just goes with it.

"But it's awful," Sherlock groans as the commercials begin. John rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Sherlock, can't you ever just derive enjoyment from something? It's Doctor Who, for Christ's sake." "John, the entire plot is ridiculous and anticlimactic. Aside from the horrific cosmological errors, silence will fall when the question is asked? How can they make such a broad statement without clarifying it at all? Anyway, people ask 'Doctor who?' with astonishing frequency, so where's the supposed silence?" The doctor sighs and crosses his arms. "Should have known better than to try and do something calm and entertaining with you." On the television, a monkey puppet is marketing bananas to the general public. Neither Sherlock or John is paying attention to it, however, with one flatmate glaring at his friend and the other focusing intently on John's eyes, trying to figure out the ratio of brown to green- and confused, why is John upset?- was it something that-

"I'm sorry, John."

John's _hrmph_ sound is the sound of acceptance. Or it is for Sherlock, anyway.

Sherlock let's his head fall to the crook of John's neck. He can feel John tense with uncertainty and then gradually relax, but the doctor says nothing. Sherlock's breaths grows deeper as John 's pulse hums beneath his cheek, steady and slow.

_Never leave me, John._

3. In which John is asleep.

It is nearly two in the morning when Sherlock finally hails a cab to take them home. John is bent over with his hands on his knees, panting from exertion. The detective sees that his flatmate's pupils are dilated with adrenaline, and he smiles inwardly. Doctor John Watson will always be a soldier. The cool night air blows Sherlock's dark curls back from his face, and he slides smoothly into the cab, unruffled. As if they hadn't just hunted down a serial killer, been led into a crack den, and gotten into a gun fight with various armed thugs.

John tumbles into the other side of the cab and leans his back on the headrest. It takes a few minutes for Sherlock to notice that his partner is asleep, with his mouth parted slightly and his hands lying relaxed in his lap. The detective has a sudden urge to know what the doctor's short sandy hair feels like- if he touched it gingerly with the pads of his fingers, perhaps, or maybe if it brushed against the side of his face, but he settles for two fingers on John's wrist, feeling the throbbing beat of John's beautiful heart. A better melody than any he will ever hear, it lulls him to sleep, fingers resting gently over his friend's pulse.

_Goodnight, John._

4. In which John is hurt.

The door to 221B swings open violently and hits the wall. Sherlock bursts in, wind-whipped cheeks flushed with elation. Talking excitedly, he addresses the sandy head in the opposite chair. "John- it's- I was right! It was in the goose, I mean, _in _the goose, stuck in its throat. Can you imagine?" Beat. "John...?" The doctor's head is turned towards him, and suddenly Sherlock can see the bruises marring his flatmate's face, reddish blotches swollen and fading into shades of purple and blue. "Yeah, Sherlock?" The detective just stares, a brief flicker of pain showing in his eyes for just one second. Then, in one fluid motion, he leaps over the table, knocks it over, and has his hand at the side of John's neck. "Sherlock!" Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in, calming himself in tune to the throb of John's heartbeat. John carefully peels the other's fingers off of his neck with a worried look. "I was got in a fight at the bar, alright? It's not a big deal. Sherlock?"

The detective stand there frozen for a second, then slumps, his energy gone. "Don't ever hurt yourself again, John," he says, and whisks out of the room, leaving a bemused and slightly battered doctor.

+1

Sherlock's breath rushes past his lips in one beat, his eyes widening before he sinks to the ground and they squeeze shut. He can feel his head drop to the cold cement of the alleyway, can feel the blood slowly soaking his shirt, making it cling stickily to his stomach. He thinks, briefly, that he is going to die, and in this moment of weakness a small whimper escapes his closed mouth before darkness overtakes his mind.

John has run faster than he ever thought possible, driven by absolute fear. He quickly drops to his flatmate's side, calling Sherlock's name, softly at first, then with increasing intensity. He presses his hands to the jagged wound, which is seeping blood at a steady rate, a spreading impurity on Sherlock's perfect form. Far too much blood for John to do anything about.

His vision blurs as lifts his hands from the gash, hands covered in dark liquid. He presses his hand to the detective's cheek, smudging red onto Sherlock's exquisitely pale face. Too pale, perhaps. No, definitely. "Come on, Sherlock," he pleads. "Open your eyes, okay? Look at me." His fear only mounts in intensity as Sherlock eyelids do not so much as flutter, long lashes staying static. Thoughts race through John's mind, blurring and shifting so much that he latches on to just one: _Please, God, let him live. _His thumb rubs up and down Sherlock's cheekbone, like a prayer put into action. His movement is arrested by two long, cold fingers pressed into his wrist. The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirk upward into a small smile, and he relaxes, lulled by the feel of John's beating heart. He will never let go._  
_

John smiles. _Thank God. _"I'll always be here, Sherlock."

And Sherlock, holding on to the last traces of consciousness, thinks, _I know._

* * *

**So yeah, that's the end. :)**

**Please tell me what you thought (even if you hated it, I'd like to know what I can fix!)**

**Any questions, feel free to ask by way of review or PM. Tell me which number was your favorite!**

**Thank you!**

**For the last one, I don't know why John didn't call 999. Maybe he left his phone at home. I can't really imagine him getting into a bar fight, either...oh well**


End file.
